


Dissolving into Light

by Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, Victim POV, fairly creepy, ghost story, phrack flirting over a corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: An experiment with second person POV. Watching Phrack at a crime scene as the corpse.





	Dissolving into Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Geenee27 for the beta 😘

When you wake there is no pain. Although for some reason you feel there ought to be. There is a man leaning over you, his eyes are calm and sad.

"No sign of a struggle," he observes to no-one in particular.

He raises your hand, the polish you applied that morning is still immaculate, pale pink, the shade a perfect match for your dress. You try to pull back, such a familiar touch from a stranger seems improper.

You cannot move.

"You think she knew her attacker then?", the voice is coming from the doorway; it is female and well bred. You cannot see the speaker from your position on the floor and still you cannot move, but the voice is oddly familiar, although you can’t quite place it.

The man turns his head away, his expression changing, a subtle mix of amusement, exasperation and pleasure.

“Ah, Miss Fisher. I wondered how long it would take you to make an appearance.”

“Well if you didn’t insist on getting out of bed at such an ungodly hour, I could have given you a lift.”

 “Strangely enough, wasting half the day listening to you snore is not a very appealing prospect.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about…have you seen these?”

The man turns back to you, reaching out a large hand wearing a black leather glove. He shuts your eyes but somehow you can still see, after a fashion. The colours are washed out, pale ghosts of gold and blue as sunlight hits the rug on the parlour floor. You can see yourself now, immobile, colourless, flat as an image on a moving picture screen, except for the blood seeping through the pink of your dress

You know now that you are dead.

It should be more of a shock, more frightening than it is, but like everything else, the knowledge seems distant, unreal. There is a flatness, an equity to the world. You are dead. The carpet is ruined. The two people in the room appear to be lovers. These observations all have an equal place - cold facts, real and unreal, almost entirely detached and soon to be left behind.

There _is_ fear, if you concentrate, and a faint sense of relief that at least you will not have to worry at the expense of replacing the carpet, which looks beyond repair. There is also a kind of irritation at the people flirting over your corpse. If these are supposed to be the people investigating your death, you are not sure how much confidence you have in them. Surely, they should have more respect for the dead?

They are at your desk now, rummaging through the bills you could not afford to pay. It’s a burden lifted for sure, although probably not worth the cost. Probably. You are not sure that you enjoyed being alive that much. You are not sure of anything any more, which you suppose is to be expected. You’ve had a nasty shock, even if you can’t quite feel it yet.

“You knew her I take it?”

The man is leant in, close to his companion, reading over her shoulder, his hand resting at her waist. Totally inappropriate behaviour in public - although, of course, they are not in public. There’s no-one here but you and you have ceased to factor into the concerns of the living, at least as far as propriety is concerned.

“Not well. Eliza hasn’t really involved herself in society since her marriage. I assumed it was her odious husband keeping her away, but looking at these,” the woman picked up another bill from the pile, “maybe she simply couldn’t afford to.”

Eliza. The name, like the woman’s voice, is familiar to you in a way you can almost-but-not-quite remember. Like an old friend from childhood, once much loved but long since forgotten in the busy business of living.

The woman approaches you. No, not you. Your body, lying bloody on the floor. You are no longer bound to it, but where you are is not an easy question to answer. Different angles and perspectives blur together like dream images without linear or logical connection. Clearer where your attention is focused, distorted at the edges.

_You know this place. Where do you know it from?_

She is beautiful, the woman in the room - the living woman, that is. You notice this dispassionately, devoid of either lust or envy. Sinless. Probably a wise precaution for the dead. The man has clearly noticed too, he is watching her intently as she pores over your body, scrutinising, evaluating. Her expression makes you feel oddly naked. As if she can see all the secrets you no longer remember keeping.

She looks angry now, pulling a white handkerchief from an embroidered handbag with a gloved hand. The rich, cherry-coloured silk of the glove registers momentarily in your consciousness like a flash of memory then fades again to grey. The man comes closer, watching as she wipes the powder from your cheek.

“It’s not easy to hide a bruise like that. I’d say it’s not the first time she’s had to do it.”

She looks at the man who has dropped again to crouch beside her and you see the understanding, the sadness and the anger; it flows between them, more tangible than the fading features of the room.

_You remember who gave you that bruise._

The room is dissolving into light; you can no longer see the fireplace or the desk where the bills are still piled up. Somebody else’s problem now. The world is shrinking to the little circle around your corpse, vanishing gently, peacefully, taking your mind with it.

“It sounds like we need to have a little chat with this woman’s husband.”

The voice is a long way off now and could belong to either or them. You can no longer see the other people in the room or your body lying on the floor. There is a relief in this oblivion, painless and kind. A strange contentment, as sweet as it is unfamiliar.

_You have no doubts now._

_Your death will not go unpunished._

 

 


End file.
